


Bindings

by ExLibrisCraux



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anti-Muggle Content, Blackmail, Classism, Dom Hermione Granger, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Light Bondage, Magical Contract, Marking, Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Spanking, Sub Lucius Malfoy, turning the tables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExLibrisCraux/pseuds/ExLibrisCraux
Summary: Lucius, the snide bastard, loves being in control.What a shame it would be if someone were to unexpectedly flip that narrative.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 21
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written in 2006 as a gift for a friend. I don't know whether or not it's aged well - it's been many years since I was an active part of the HP fandom, and I didn't do any editing before I posted it here. I figure if I'm dropping it here for posterity I may as well do it warts and all.
> 
> So - Bindings, written for Shiv, 6/6/2006.

Hermione loathed busywork.

She’d learned to recognise it quite early on in her school days, even before Hogwarts, and since to her nearly  _ everything _ was busywork, it made for tedious classtimes indeed. Harry and Ron had never understood her compulsive studying outside of class, and she’d endured teasing about it since day one, but the truth was she was  _ bored _ .

She hadn’t realised that endless, mindless tedium in the classroom only served to prepare you for the endless, mindless tedium faced in the adult world.

Sighing, Hermione rested her head on the ledger book in front of her, closing her eyes. Day fourteen of cataloguing old files and she was fed up to her eyeteeth with it. She’d had nothing but this sort of time-wasting assignment since she’d taken her post at the Ministry’s Records department, and she was well aware that they were designed to keep her out of the way and out of trouble. Trouble for her superiors, at any rate.

This particular assignment- cataloguing the Ministry’s extensive files regarding goblin hierarchies- was by far the most mind-numbing of the lot thus far. It would take her a minimum of six weeks to finish, every day of it spent in the archives’ musty, dusty back stacks with nary a breath of fresh air or sunlight from the time she clocked in until she punched out in the evening. Ron’s chiding voice giggled in the back of her mind- “Just your sort of thing, Hermione!” and she hissed her irritation, slamming the ledger shut.

She was a war hero, damnit! Hermione had (with a modicum of help from Harry, Ron and the rest of the Order, of course; credit where it was due) fought and vanquished Voldemort and his minions. Surely this meant she didn’t have to sit in some forgotten library, ten years later, scribbling down an unending succession of names and dates that no-one remembered or cared about. Her Orders of Merlin (First Class, all three of them) should have been good enough guaranty against that.

But… here she was, nevertheless. And she hadn’t even put up a fight. What was wrong with her?

Hermione stared at the opposite wall, and for the first time since accepting the Ministry post, took a good, hard look at what she was doing and where it would take her. She watched in dawning horror as the years played out behind her eyes, an endless succession of days in which nothing changed but the amount of grey in her hair and the fading light in her eyes.

Would it really come to that? Hermione wondered.

It would. She knew it with sudden certainty. She would never leave these stacks; never receive anything more than what she’d already got- a handful of shiny medals, a pat on the head and eventually a tiny pension. She’d been put out to pasture already, at the wizened old age of twenty seven years, and was already being slowly forgotten about as the Ministry gradually buried her beneath mounds of bureaucratic paperwork and old, useless records.

Fine.

The Ministry higher-ups wanted to stuff her away in the archives and leave her to her own devices? Fine.  _ Fine _ . But she’d play this game by  _ her _ rules, damn them and their patronising assumptions. If they thought Hermione Granger was going to fade into the background like a good girl, they were in for a nasty shock. They ought to have known better, really they ought, so on their own heads be it. Standing abruptly, the angry witch unceremoniously dropped into a nearby cart the stack of books she’d been browsing- not so carelessly that they might come to any harm- and hefted her ledger. It was late on a Friday night- there would be nobody about anywhere in the archives now; she was certain to have the entire level to herself, until Monday morning if necessary.

Perfect.

Suppressing what she suspected was a wicked little smirk, Hermione mentally tallied up every petty little bureaucrat who’d snubbed her, sneered at her, patronised her or otherwise wronged her since she’d begun working for the Ministry. The list was a long one, and Percy Weasley sat smugly at the top of it. Active personnel records were, as she’d been reminded time and time again (as though she needed telling more than once) strictly verboten, but Hermione headed in their direction now, her small, grim smile foretelling doom.

The section was not locked, and Hermione snorted. How very Garden of Eden, she thought, to tell you NO! and then put the bloody apple tree right out in the open without so much as an angel to guard it. Presumably the assumption was that anyone this far down in the archives was  _ meant _ to be here, and could do as they liked. Idiots, she thought, and pushed open the door.

It was a matter of only a few minutes to collect dossiers on the first ten names in her mental list, another quarter hour to create a copy of each. Replacing the originals and tucking her copies into her ledger, she hurried out of the restricted stacks, and headed for the door. Ten was enough to begin with; best to take this sort of thing in small stages, Hermione thought. Time to go home, and peruse her findings with a glass of Chablis and a smug eye. Digging for useful information- she refused to think of it as blackmail- was, technically, cheating, but she’d very quickly got over her distaste for that sort of thing when it became clear that winning the War would require it.

This was a war, too, she consoled her muttering conscience. It just wasn’t quite so bloody, although if she had to spend much longer buried under stacks of old paperwork, there was a good chance that would change. Her career was stagnating, and the thought of spending the rest of her life forgotten in the records department was more than enough to overrule any leftover scruples, if it came to that.

Hermione turned to lock the department door behind her, hefting the huge book and balancing it awkwardly against her hip. The copied dossiers slipped a little, trapped loosely between the cover and the pages, but stayed put while she wrangled the complicated locking mechanism, muttering under her breath about staid, wrinkled, dusty old wizards who wouldn’t recognise a nicely modern locking charm if it permanently bound up their intestines. Finally sliding the last bolt into place, she turned, pocketing her key, and hefted the heavy book yet again. Her footsteps echoed along the corridor, their echo returning to her doubled, as though someone else was prowling the Ministry at this time of night. Hermione snorted at the ridiculousness of that idea- as if anyone worked overtime, other than her- and rounded the corner, heading to the lift.

…and collided painfully with another body coming the opposite direction.

She hit the floor, landed hard on her arse, and dropped the book. Papers scattered everywhere, and Hermione let out a dismayed squeak, scrambling to her knees and frantically gathered together what she could, mumbling an apology.

A gloved hand scooped up a few of the papers before she could snatch them away, and a languid drawl answered her.

“My, my, Miss Granger; working late at the weekend? Whatever could have captured your interest, I wonder?”

Shit. Shit, shit,  _ shit _ .

Silently, Hermione cursed Murphy, his Law, his lineage and all his offspring. Of all the people to literally run into why, oh why did it have to be Lucius bloody Malfoy?

Supercilious sneer curling his lip, he perused the papers he’d picked up, while she cautiously climbed to her feet. Hermione watched as gloved hands flipped through page after page of illicit documentation. He was, she thought, just as arrogant as the day he’d been acquitted for the second time, secure in his own superiority, in the knowledge that  _ everything _ was beneath him, including a not-nearly-long-enough stint in Azkaban. She felt the familiar swell of pure loathing, and bit back the sharp answer that first came to mind, remaining silent.

Malfoy arched a haughty brow, glancing up to her, cold, grey eyes amused. “Personnel records? Miss Granger;  _ surely _ you are aware this is strictly classified information. How came you by these, I wonder?” His smirk deepened when she flushed and clutched her massive book in white-knuckled hands. “My word. Taking a nibble of forbidden fruit, are we? I can only imagine what your superiors would say if they were to be informed of this.”

Hermione inwardly groaned. This was it, then- she’d lose her job; any good name she’d built for herself would be forever tarnished. Blacklisted Ministry employees were notoriously hard-pressed to find work elsewhere, she knew. She’d be ruined. She’d have to move back in with her parents; give up magic and live as a Muggle, or swallow her pride and move in with- oh gods-  _ Harry _ , who would be sweetly, uncomprehendingly patronising over the whole affair. An Order of Merlin was nice but it didn’t pay the bills and her savings had long ago run out… really the only reason she’d let herself work for the Ministry in the first place.

Malfoy had stepped closer, the rich fabric of his robes rustling too loudly in the hush of the weekend-deserted Ministry corridor. Hermione watched in fascinated disgust as he leaned forward, the tassel of his bound hair slipping forward over his shoulder. “I imagine,” he murmured, voice as cold in her ear as his breath was warm, “that this would imperil your employment here. I’m quite certain of it, in fact. A word from me to Mr Honeycutt would see you sacked before you’d time to draw breath. I can’t imagine you have another source of income, Miss Granger. I am certain you can ill afford the Ministry blacklist.”

The truth of this must have registered on Hermione’s face. Malfoy chuckled lowly. “I thought not. However…” He tapped the papers in his hand thoughtfully. “However, I believe we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement, Miss Granger. A favour from me, in exchange for a favour… from you.”

Had she imagined the hint of lechery in his cold voice? Glancing up, Hermione decided that no; no, she hadn’t. She quelled the immediate surge of queasy horror, and took a step backward, composing herself.

“I can’t believe you’d lower yourself, Mr Malfoy, to such a bargain,” she replied, deliberately saccharine. “I’m  _ Muggleborn _ , as I’m sure you know.” Her smile was crystalline, poised just on the verge of shattering into an enraged scream.  _ Just one word _ , Hermione thought. Just a single wrong word would set that scream free, probably shaped around her wand and an unfortunate turn of phrase.

Possibly even an  _ Avada _ . She was that angry.

Malfoy only smiled the broader. “I am willing,” he replied, “to make an exception. Clearly, Miss Granger, you are an exceptional witch. Besides which,” he leaned closer once more, intimately close, and she closed her eyes to shut out his lovely, loathsome face. “I’ve wished for some time now to see you reminded of your proper place.” She could practically hear the condescending smirk. “ _ Beneath _ your social betters.”

Moving away again, folding the papers he held, he slipped them into a pocket. “I advise you to consider your options carefully,” he continued. “I should think till Monday morning will be sufficient. I  _ do _ look forward to hearing from you.”

He turned on his heel and swept away, robes billowing, that hated, pretentious cane clicking on the tile floor with every other step. Hermione stood, hands clenched around her ledger, and watched him go, waiting until she could no longer hear either cane or footstep before finally relinquishing her pent, furious shriek.


	2. Chapter 2

This was most certainly not, Hermione reflected, how she’d intended her evening to progress.

She’d envisioned a glass of excellent wine; perhaps a bubble bath. Some quiet music, something suitably upbeat. A fire in the fireplace and her comfortable dressing gown, and the stack of ill-gotte- …debatably unscrupulous documents spread out before her, to be leisurely perused between pages of some suitably improving novel.

Instead, Hermione was hunched over her kitchen table, still in her work clothes, her third bottle of bitter half-empty at her elbow. The personnel papers were stacked haphazardly across from her, already hurriedly read through. She’d made a mistake in going in alphabetical order; the officials she’d copied and brought home with her were apparently all but completely innocent of even the merest whiff of scandalous behaviour. Hermione was vastly disappointed by this. She’d hoped for a bit of leverage to bank on, enough to reasonably risk declining Lucius Malfoy’s surprising and despised offer.

She’d have to take it, she acknowledged with a sinking heart. She was roughly a month away from being penniless, and while doubtless there were many who would be willing to help her financially, Hermione knew she’d never be able to recover her good name if she were dismissed from the Ministry. She was too well-known for it to stay out of the papers, and there were far too many people willing to greatly embellish the story. Snooping where she shouldn’t be would rapidly become anything imaginable up to and including an assassination attempt on the Minister, Hermione felt sure, and what was worse: it would be believed, true or not. Everyone, of course, loved a good scandal. Why let a silly thing like the truth get in the way of a perfectly good scapegoating?

She let her forehead thud painfully to the tabletop, and closed her eyes.

Could she do this?

Could she- knowingly and willingly- take Lucius Malfoy to her bed? She’d seen him thoughtlessly injure her allies; was sure he’d killed; knew without a doubt that he would do the same to her if it convenienced him. He’d been released after the War with time served and a hefty fine as his only punishment, but Hermione was dead certain he deserved far, far worse. He was a villain of the first order.

Could she bed him, simply to keep her job? Public face versus private integrity…

Hermione groaned. Her entire adult life, it seemed, was one gradual, slippery slide away from the ideals she’d held as a child. This was, apparently, only the next step in that slope.

Well. Being an idealist was all well and good, but it rarely accomplished what she wanted. It was far better, she had learned, to be a pragmatist.

Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes, and cracked her back. This was the situation, then, and there seemed no altering it; best to look at it objectively and sort out a way to make it work to her advantage. If her only option was acquiescing to Malfoy’s obscene suggestion, then she would do so.

Certainly, however, there must be a way to do this on her own terms.

Terms…

A glimmering of an idea slipped into her mind, drifting unanchored. Slowly, Hermione leaned back in her chair, examining the nascent thought from every angle. Terms. Yes. Terms and conditions…

Rising, she breezed into the other room and snatched up her coat from where she’d flung it across the sofa. A bit of research, she thought, was precisely what this situation required. The door slammed behind her as she left. It wouldn’t be the first Friday night she’d spent alone in Flourish and Blotts’, reading long after the last customer had left. Hermione rather thought she’d have to start paying the proprietors rent.

Or at the very least, actually  _ purchase _ a book now and again.

Late Sunday night, she was finally satisfied. She’d spent all of Saturday and most of Sunday engrossed in rapid, frantic research, paging through book after book in F&B’s extensive collection. At least four hours had been spent writing, and when Hermione finally signed her name at the bottom of her missive, her hand was cramped and sore, stained here and there with dark blue ink. Yawning massively, she folded and sealed the letter, and set it aside to be taken to the public owl post office in the morning on her way to work. She had no recollection of going to bed, but she’d never slept so soundly.

Monday morning, Hermione trudged into the Ministry as she had done every workday for the past three years. She endured the daily ritual of clocking in, waiting for the lift, ignoring the chatter around her and finally stepping out on the archives level. She settled with the distressing ease of practice into the dull tedium of cataloguing, picking up with goblin dynasties where she’d left off Friday evening. Business as usual.

Her nerves, however, sang a song shriller than any dog whistle.

Lunchtime came. Hermione clocked out, wandered down the street to the small Muggle café where she usually ate, bought the same quick fish-and-chips that normally comprised her lunch. Distractedly, she devoured it in the usual time, and wandered back to the Ministry. Clock in; back to the stacks; sit; find her place; write.

Thus it went until five pm, whereupon Hermione slammed her ledger shut, hurriedly dropped her books on the library cart, grabbed her coat, and all but fled to the lift and out of the Ministry.

There was an owl awaiting her when she arrived home, as Hermione had known there would be. The massive bird was unmistakeable- it shared its owner’s arrogance, appearing disdainful of the modest surroundings to which it was expected to deliver a message. When she reluctantly offered it one of the only-slightly-stale treats she kept on hand for the occasions she received mail, it snapped its beak sharply at her and very nearly knocked her over in its rush of wings to the window.

Hermione pulled a face at the haughty creature as it flew away, and flung the uneaten treat after it.

Then, heart hammering with what could have been fear but might have been perverse anticipation, she dropped into the chair by the window and unfolded the letter.

Elegant, lazy handwriting fairly oozed across crisp, obviously expensive paper. The message was brief. Her terms, Malfoy wrote, were unusual but acceptable. Pending satisfaction of their agreement, his silence was assured. She was expected Friday evening; tardiness would be considered breach of their as-yet-unsealed contract.

Hermione crumpled the letter in one shaking hand, then thought better of it and smoothed it again. Best to keep a record of each step of this, even if it were only to give her something to smirk at later in life. Assuming, that is, that this travesty unfolded according to her admittedly-rushed design.

It had to. It had no choice but to play out as she wished; Hermione would accept nothing less. She was slightly startled at the unflinching, cold certainty that she held toward this situation: surprised and more than a little bit secretly pleased.

Hermione was pitting herself against Lucius Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, superb politician and consummate Slytherin, and by every god who cared to bear witness, she was going to win.

Friday, she very nearly skived off work, she felt so nervously ill. She barely took notice of any work she actually did, and when she finally closed her ledger and replaced the day’s reference books, she’d only managed about half her usual workload.

Which was probably half again as much as anyone else in her department, but still; it was an unforgivable departure from the norm. Hermione made a note to herself to make a note to fix that, later, when she could think clearly enough to make a coherent mental note.

Her ablutions were quick but thorough, upon her return home, and she stood now in front of her wardrobe, scanning the garments therein and at war with herself. Her instincts demanded she wear her most expensive dress robes- this was Lucius Malfoy she was meeting, for Merlin’s sake, and it would not do to arrive dressed (comparably) like a street beggar.

Then again, Hermione snarled at herself, this was  _ Lucius Malfoy _ she was meeting, and by definition, anything she owned would by comparison make her look like a street beggar. Additionally, what point or purpose could be served by dressing up? She had no need to impress him; indeed, an unexpectedly strong streak of perversity was demanding she dress down, hopefully to shock and dismay, or at the very least, offend and annoy.

Finally, Hermione settled on the middle of the road, and slipped into a Muggle dress skirt and jacket. Heels- she corrected her slightly unbalanced wobble with a discreet charm- and a scarf for colour. Her hair would simply have to be acceptable tied back; she steadfastly refused to spend any time making it conventionally sleek and styled, or even nominally presentable.

Precisely ten minutes prior to the allotted time, Hermione disapparated from her living room, reappearing in front of- and this had to be a condescending nod to her notorious habits- Flourish and Blotts’ storefront.

He was, probably unsurprisingly, already there. Trust the bastard to forgo being fashionably late in order to deprive her of the confidence granted by arriving first. Hermione opened her mouth to speak- probably a greeting, although in her nervously foul mood, gods only knew  _ what _ was waiting to fall out- but Malfoy, smirking, took her arm, tugged her closer, and wrapped his other arm around her waist. With an unpleasantly visceral tug, the world vanished once more from around her as the double-disapparition removed them from Diagon Alley’s cobbled street.

Mockingly, her escort offered Hermione his arm when they reappeared on the walk leading up to the ostentatious mansion the Malfoys called home. Glaring at him, she recovered herself from the surprised stumble she’d almost fallen into, and straightened. With a disdainful shrug, he led her up the path and through the massive double doors that let into the manor’s entry hall. All the formalities, she thought bitterly as a house elf appeared to cringingly take her coat.

“Now, then,” Malfoy began, leading her into an exquisitely decorated study and waving her to a seat. Hermione paused, then obeyed, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. “I confess your response to my offer amused me. A written contract is certainly nothing unusual, but I really should be insulted that you refuse to take me at my word in this matter.” He sat as well, quite near to her, his usual superior smirk lodged firmly in his expression. “I am, after all, a gentleman, Miss Granger.”

“Be that as it may,” Hermione primly replied, “I feel quite a bit more reassured having the terms set out in writing.” From an inside pocket of her jacket she produced a slim bundle of parchment, offering it to him with one brow arched. “We may, after all, hold entirely different opinions of what constitutes a ‘gentleman’.”

The tiniest quirk in his expression almost said ‘touché’, but it was only a flicker, and his grey gaze dropped to the parchment, lazily scanning the tiny lines of text. It was quite obvious his attention was not on the words he skimmed, but rather the witch who had presented them to him. Natural arrogance, thought Hermione, would be his downfall. So she fervently prayed, at least, to anyone who might be listening. Arranging her face into an expression she hoped was the appropriate mixture of distaste and hope, she waited for him to finish his perusal.

It was, to her secret relief, brief. Malfoy leaned back in his chair, expression patronisingly smug, and quirked a brow at her. “A simple enough document,” he drawled, and she could hear the smirk when her shoulders tensed at the hidden insult. “It seems in order; I see no need to delay its conditions by having a third party review it.”

_ Thank you gods _ , she thought as he stood, and watched him sidelong as he turned away and strode to the massive desk that dominated the corner of the room. There was a click of porcelain- his inkwell being uncapped- and then the soft skritch of a stylus tip to parchment. Slowly, Hermione smiled.

Idiot. Arrogant, superior little tosspot…

“There you are, Miss Granger,” he said, handing her the now-signed document. “A drink, perhaps, to seal the bargain? You seem the sort of woman to appreciate good port.”

Hermione said nothing, every inch of her playing the part of an angry witch trapped in a situation abhorrent to her. He would expect nothing less, of course. Besides… the perfect moment would present itself, she felt sure. Wait a minute or two more. Give the occasion a bit of drama. If this was to be the game she played, it was worth playing it to the hilt.

Malfoy took her silence as acquiescence, and poured for two from a decanter on the sideboard. Handing her a glass, he lifted his own, mockingly smirking down at her. “A marvellous occasion indeed,” he sneered. “So, then… to business!”

A perfect toast, Hermione thought, and rose to her feet, a smirk to match his own crawling over her features. She tapped her glass against his and took a swallow of the heavy wine, watching his expression shift from superior to startled and slide into impassivity, all within the space of a second. This was not, she could tell he was thinking, at all how Hermione Granger should behave in this situation.

She removed the contract from her pocket, reviewing its contents with the same lazy air with which he had done the same only minutes before. It was deliberately mocking, and Hermione could tell he knew it. Good. Get angry, she thought. For all the good it will do you.

“A simple enough document,” she echoed him, even managing an affectation of his lazy drawl. “Everything in order. No need to have a third party review it, particularly since we’ve both already signed it, and it’s perfectly  _ binding _ .” The emphasis was, of course, deliberate. Hermione took another sip of the admittedly excellent port, and tapped the parchment twice, where their signatures rested, hers on top. Her smirk broadened as heretofore invisible text soaked up through the paper’s fibres, crawling spiderlike across the cream-pale surface.

She wished absently that she had a camera, or, at a pinch, a Creevey. The expression on Lucius Malfoy’s face was priceless, and Hermione would have loved to have it preserved for posterity, to take out and fondly reminisce over in future days. Memory, she thought, would have to suffice, and she smirked at him, memorising every stricken feature while he gaped at the parchment.

“You really should be more cautious, Mr Malfoy,” she murmured. He snatched the contract from her hands, rapidly scanning the new text with a sharp attention he had not granted the initial document.

“It’s not binding,” he sneered. “Any clause added to the document after it’s signed renders the entire thing null and void.”

“Quite so,” she agreed, and smiled at him, saccharine-sweet. “But this wasn’t added after you signed it; it was all there beforehand. It’s certainly not  _ my _ fault you didn’t check for charms.”

Malfoy stared at her, and Hermione only broadened her smile, perfectly innocent, perfectly damning. Finally, he folded the parchment, regaining with obvious effort his normal aloof composure, and handed the contract back to her. “Of course you’re correct,” he conceded. And smiled. “And I must admit; it’s a clever bit of extra insurance, Miss Granger.” Don’t preen, she thought; don’t do it, because if he’s stroking your ego there can only be something unpleasant to come after it. Malfoy turned away and refilled his glass, topping hers off as well when he turned back. “Well-played. I underestimated you, Miss Granger; clearly you understand at least some of the basic rules of the game. Know your adversary, of course, being first and foremost.”

Where, she wondered, was this going?

“I believe I understand your aim with this. Slipping a clause into the contract, one you know I would never willingly submit to, you hope to avoid the entire messy business, and ensure my silence in the process.” Right in one, Hermione thought. What is your bloody  _ point _ ?

“Well-reasoned, and I suspect with someone else it would have worked well. Know your adversary.” Malfoy took a sip of his port. “I know you, Miss Granger, and I know you would never take advantage of that clause. I have no intention of letting this opportunity slip away. You can  _ try _ , of course, to enforce it… but I really don’t think you’ve got it in you. You’re a  _ good _ girl.”

Something inside Hermione snapped. It was a soft, soundless shattering of a boundary she hadn’t known she’d been limited by, and Hermione drew a deep breath.  _ You’re a  _ **_good_ ** _ girl _ …

“Well, then, Mr Malfoy,” she heard herself say. “Let’s see how  _ good _ I am.”

It all came down, she thought later, to spending too much time in those bloody dungeons at Hogwarts. It was bound to do something to a girl’s mind, being surrounded all the time by stone walls, some with manacles still attached. It gave you ideas.

_ This _ idea had come to her in a flash. The whole point of all of this, from the moment she’d conceived the thought of blackmailing- yes, blackmailing; time to start calling a spade a spade- the Ministry was to do things her way for once, to play their game by her rules. Malfoy’s offer had simply fallen into that same trend. She’d play the game, but by all the gods, it would be by her rules or none. Hermione had had the occasional guilty fantasy- always with a faceless partner; and always quickly stifled- that she preferred not to look at too closely in case it meant she was deviant; sick; wrong. Now, however… now she looked at Lucius Malfoy, looked long and hard, and let every one of them well up and play out in her mind’s eye: every strip of leather, every frightening bit of clothing, every horribly fascinating accessory and every terrifying, exhilarating moment of imagined dominance. A slow smile crawled across her face and would not be dislodged.

Hermione raised her glass in a mocking toast, and downed the rest of her port in one long swallow. The alcohol was a sweet sting in her throat, and it made her voice raspy when she spoke, almost threatening.

“Now, Mr Malfoy,” she said. “To business.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lucius Malfoy had, Hermione idly reflected, a  _ magnificent _ bath. It was not so much a bathroom as a condensed spa. The bath itself was set into the floor, a nevercool charm keeping the water steaming until drained. Marvellously thick, soft towels hung from a nearby rack, towels that could conceivably do double service as blankets should the need arise. All things considered, it was worth all the rest of this evening’s mess just for the opportunity to relax for a little while in this gorgeous decadence.

She sank a bit lower into the water, breathing in the heavenly aroma of gardenia- and honeysuckle-scented bubbles. Save for the gentle sloshing of water against porcelain tile when she moved, all was silence, and Hermione smiled. Lucius, she reflected, must be utterly furious at being held hostage by his own house elf, and it only amplified the witch’s wicked, new-discovered sense of schadenfreude. Served the bastard right. It had been an argument to convince the elf that its loyalties now lay with her, but once she’d demonstrated the logic- it served Lucius and Lucius now served  _ her _ , per magically binding contract, therefore it served her as well and if it didn’t she’d hex the damned thing into miniscule,  _ messy _ pieces- it had eagerly enough taken up the cause of ensuring the wizard’s good behaviour until her return.

Hermione needed the time out of Lucius’ presence to gather herself.

She’d looked at her fantasies, there in Lucius’ parlour, and hadn’t hidden from them this time. She was forced to admit that they frightened her… but by the same token, she was also forced to acknowledge that if she were to see this through- and she was determined to see it through to whatever end- then she needed them. Hermione had all her life long adamantly seen herself as a Good Girl. Why, then, had it stung her so when that very image had been thrown back at her by an arrogant man?

Sexuality should not be the end-all and be-all of her existence, and Merlin knew it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be. She was almost as celibate as a monk, and it certainly wasn’t by her own choice.

It stung her because obviously, Lucius knew that. It stung her because in his eyes, because of it, she was inferior, and it was  _ that _ to which she objected so strenuously. Sex was not the object of any of this… it was merely the tool, one he understood and had used himself on countless occasions, and had been prepared and intending to use on  _ her _ . And Hermione refused to be used. This was not about sex. It was about power. Her power. Nothing else would hurt Lucius Malfoy like being used in the way he’d used so many.

Hermione closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

So, then.

Cautiously, tentatively, she let those images well up again, all the carefully-suppressed fantasies she’d hidden away, thinking them dirty; deviant; beneath her. She imagined Lucius, stripped as bare of pretence as he was of clothes. She imagined herself standing before him, resplendent in arrogance and little else. Hermione let the fantasy wash over her, intimate and comfortingly warm as her bathwater; she let herself fall into it and imagined the possibility of dominating Lucius Malfoy…

_ Lucius Malfoy on his knees before a Muggleborn woman. _

_ It was a sight that would have sent Hermione into gales of disbelieving laughter, had anyone proposed such a thing. Too ludicrous; too utterly, utterly impossible. _

_ But here he was, unbound, bedraggled hair hanging limp about his face and shoulders like a tarnished halo, pooling in the ground at her feet. His body quivered with what might have been exhaustion but might just as easily have been anticipation. _

_ "Say it." _

_ Her voice was cold, and she was startled to hear that chill. It was his voice coming out of her mouth, the same superior arrogance that had carried him all his life, and it was hers, now. All hers. _

_ He trembled, and did not look up. _

**_"Say it!"_ **

_ Barely a whisper, his response almost didn't register above the soft slide of leather against the floor as she moved the whip. He winced, and she smiled, just as coldly as she'd spoken, and caressed his bare shoulders with pliant leather, for the moment gentle. _

_ "Again. Louder." _

_ And he did. _

_ "...please.." _

Hermione emerged glistening, wrapped in one of the massive towels. What had sloughed off in the bath was not the everyday grime of work, travel, and stress, but the last, desperate vestiges of self-consciousness. She would do this, and do it well, not only because she must, but because she  _ could _ . Because she would enjoy it.

Lucius’ chamber was precisely as she had left it. The wizard sat, sullen and impossibly arrogant in a chair near the window. The house elf stood defiantly nearby. How it had kept Lucius in place, Hermione did not know. House elf magic ran deep.

Hermione dismissed the elf with a nod. When it vanished, Lucius stood, angrily striding toward her. She held up a hand, palm forward.

“No,” she said quietly; firmly; and to her amazement (and to all appearances, his) he stopped where he was.

“No,” she continued. “I did not give you permission to rise, nor may you approach me yet.” He sneered and would have spoken, but she shook her head, shivering a little at the damp slide of her hair across her bare back. “This is the game, Lucius, and so we play it.” His given name tasted good, she thought idly, and filed the errant, inexplicable idea away for later contemplation even as it flowered in her mind. It was an elegant name, and it rolled the tongue in a way that hinted at decadence. It was soft and sibilant, not harsh like his surname… Hermione rather thought it fitted this man who stood before her, unwillingly, slowly, but inexorably bending to her will.

Lucius stared at her, gaze thoughtfully narrowed, as though she had presented him with a puzzle he could not quite work out, intrigued despite his anger.

“Strip,” Hermione commanded, leaving nothing lovely in the word, making of it a bare, stark thing. Lucius looked as though he would protest, but kept his mouth firmly shut, jaw tight. His fingers flew over the clasps of his robes, his movements angry and quick. He would obey, but he would  _ not _ make a show of it.

Hermione, blatantly insulting him with her lack of concern, turned her back on him and crossed the room. Narcissa’s wardrobe rested against the far wall, and Hermione smiled nastily at the thought of what Lucius’ wife’s expression would be if she knew the other witch was rifling through her clothes. Lucius’ little inhalation behind her confirmed Hermione’s blasphemy, and the smile grew. Hangers scraped against their supporting rod as she perused Narcissa’s clothing with a lazy, speculative air. A flare of scarlet caught her eye, and she tugged the garment free.

Why Narcissa owned something in blatantly Gryffindor colours was a mystery, but Hermione was grateful. The robe was perfect for the occasion- floor length, of some sheer, filmy fabric in vibrant crimson, edged with gold at collar, cuffs and hem. Tying the gold belt loosely at her waist, Hermione turned back to the darkly glowering wizard.

His robes hung open- he had unfastened them, but had not removed them, and Hermione frowned, anger sparking across her expression.

“I said,” she repeated softly, “ _ strip _ .” There was more than language in the single word. A thread of compulsion spun itself between her voice and his will, and Lucius found himself obeying, shrugging out of the elegant robes and leaving his chest bare. He seemed lost for a moment, holding the robes in hands that looked uncertain what they should be doing. Then he tossed them aside with a quick, angry movement, and glared at Hermione.

She smiled at him, a tight expression that promised unspeakable things.

“All of it. I want you nude, Lucius; stripped absolutely bare before me. Take off the trousers and the boots, untie your hair, and get on your knees.”

There was a flicker of rebellion in his grey eyes, a flare of indomitable anger, and it warmed Hermione’s heart to see it. This, she reflected, would be an  _ admirable _ lesson in humility for the proud wizard. She watched him as he bent to slide the supple leather boots from his feet, and rewarded him with an admiring smile when he unlaced and loosened the band of his trousers. He stepped out of them and flung them aside, and glared at her with poorly-hidden contempt, folding his arms across his chest.

It was a very nice chest, Hermione conceded, not bothering to disguise the interest in her eyes as she let her gaze travel over his now-bare body. He was well-muscled, although not overly so- he had clearly made an effort to remain fit, but his body did not bear the signs of actual  _ work _ . For a man who could be her father, she reflected, he was really quite attractive.

“Good,” she said, granting him a tiny, condescending smile.  _ You are nude and I am not _ , it said.  _ Aren’t the vagaries of power fun? _ “For a start. Your hair.”

He did not move, only glared at her, anger simmering into a higher pitch. Hermione’s smile tightened. “Your  _ hair _ , Lucius. Untie your hair. You do not, I promise, want me to do it for you. I believe, if I am not mistaken, there are scissors in the bathroom…”

The threat actually made him  _ wince _ , and his hands fairly flew to the black ribbon tying back the spill of almost-white hair that was clearly his pride and joy. Samson, thought Hermione, had nothing on Lucius Malfoy.

The ribbon fluttered to the floor, and his shoulders and back were abruptly covered by a pale golden shroud. It softened his features to have his hair down like this around his face; it made him look a little less severe; a little younger, even. Certainly it made him seem less intimidating, and Hermione was privately grateful. She pointed imperiously to the floor.

“On your knees, Lucius.”

He did not move.

“On your  _ knees _ , Lucius.”

“No,” he snarled at her defiantly, but there was a note of something else colouring his tone, something that might have been the first vestiges of worry. Hermione watched him thoughtfully for a moment, then snapped her fingers. The house elf reappeared instantly, bowing and grovelling at her feet. Damn, she thought, stop that; I want  _ him _ doing that, not you. Aloud, she casually said:

“Master Lucius has a very large house, doesn’t he?” The elf nodded enthusiastically. “I’d be willing to bet it’s much larger than I think it is, isn’t it?” It nodded again, and Lucius’ eyes narrowed fractionally. “For example, I’d bet good Galleons there are rooms only Master Lucius is allowed to enter, am I correct? Very heavily warded and well hidden rooms.” Another overdramatic nod of its floppy-eared head, and Lucius took a step toward Hermione. She held up her hand, and he stopped, fuming. “And I would be willing to bet that those rooms are  _ full _ of things he’d really rather the Aurory not know he still owns, am I still correct?” Again, the elf confirmed her guess with enthusiastic nodding, and Hermione smiled at Lucius. “So if Master Lucius would prefer the contents of those rooms remain uncatalogued, I suggest he get  _ on. His. Knees _ .”

With every evidence of sublime hatred, Lucius sank to his knees on the thick rug. Hermione smiled sweetly at him, and dismissed the house elf with an admonition not to go far; she might yet need to see inside those rooms after all. When it had gone, she prowled closer to the kneeling wizard, luxuriating in the feel of Narcissa’s airy dressing gown against her skin.

“How does it feel, Lucius,” she said softly, “to have something held over your head?” He made her no answer, and she trailed her fingertips through his long hair as she passed behind him in a lazy circle. “How does it feel to be an object? How does it feel to be powerless in the face of someone else’s scorn?” Hermione paused in front of him, and was abruptly, inextinguishably angry.  _ Furious _ . For  _ years _ she’d silently borne the disdain of his son and all his peers; she’d endured under the prejudices Lucius espoused, and uncomplainingly resolved to do her best in spite of them, despite the fact that she shouldn’t have to. For  _ years _ she’d put up with being somehow inferior, and this man was one of the main architects, directly and indirectly, of that struggle. For  _ years _ . Those years welled up inside her, building upon themselves, swelling into a tsunami-wave of perfect rage.

The impact of her hand to his cheek brought a whimper of pain from her own lips and snapped his head to the side, nearly overbalancing him. His expression, when he righted himself, was shocked. There was something unfocussed in his grey-eyed gaze, some indefinable quality that layered over his natural arrogance like snow burying all sharpness and detail of a winter landscape. The mark of Hermione’s splayed hand reddened on his pale cheek, and seeing it brought her a strange satisfaction.

“How does it  _ feel _ , Lucius?” she hissed, and her voice was savage. “How does it feel to be  _ used _ ?” She held out her stinging hand to him, palm up, and wickedly grinned. “You have a multitude of sins to atone for. Kiss it better, boy, for a start.”

To her surprise and, perhaps, to his own, Lucius did not hesitate. The brush of his lips against her red palm was momentary and cool, but he obeyed. He  _ obeyed _ .

Her feet were next, smooth and soft from the bath. She pointed to first her right, then her left foot, and he bent to kiss the top of each. When he bent down, Hermione admired the smooth curve of his bare back, the slide of muscle beneath pale skin and over bone. It was difficult to believe, seeing him like this, that he was roughly twice her age. Hermione delicately moved one foot to the side, widening her stance, and pointed to her inner ankle. The spun-silk slide of his hair fell to the side when he turned his head to kiss her there, and it covered her other foot with what felt like cool water, or satin. She hissed a little- it tickled, and felt gloriously sensuous- and pointed to the other ankle, which he dutifully kissed. All it took, Hermione thought detachedly, was a solid slap, and Lucius Malfoy was docile as any trained dog. Well, well.

With painstaking thoroughness, she guided him up her legs in this manner, pointing inch by inch to soft skin he was to kiss. When he reached her thighs, his hands automatically rose to grasp her hips, and she took a disapproving step backwards, out of his reach.

“No,” Hermione admonished. “You will not touch me until and unless I grant permission, and direction.”

His hands fell, and she smiled. “Good boy.”

Lazily, with smirking detachedness, Hermione parted the folds of her robe where they covered her thighs. The fabric slid gloriously against her as the robe’s lapels separated and fell to the side, exposing her skin to view and framing her legs, like expensive curtains around a window-glimpsed landscape. She pointed to her thigh, just above her knee, and traced a line with her fingertip from that point up to the joint of her hip, where the robe came together again and skin vanished beneath expensive cloth. “Lick me, boy. Touch nothing else.”

His hair slid over her skin, feeling much like the robe had done, as he bent forward, and Hermione hissed at the coolness of it, and at the heat of his breath; at the wet flame of his tongue as it flattened where she had indicated, and glided slowly up. She watched his face as he obeyed her and tasted her smooth skin; watched the half-lidded expression that seemed so out of place on his haughty features and yet seemed so gloriously, fulfillingly right. Hermione watched him and smiled. Lucius was hers.

Abruptly, she tangled her fist in his hair and jerked his head back, away from her. There was not only pain and shock in his eyes when they flared open, and the queasiness that curled in Hermione’s gut was not only guilt at treating another human being in this way, no matter how loathsome she found him. There was pleasure for both of them, and it sprang from the same source. If she’d had any doubts about that, in his case at least, they would have been immediately laid to rest by the evidence of his desperately straining erection.

“You  _ like _ this,” she purred maliciously, and tightened her grip in Lucius’ lovely hair. “You absolutely adore being taken advantage of.” He did not answer her, save the tiniest whimper that escaped from his painfully-arched throat. It was enough. She smiled savagely and shoved him backwards, letting go of his hair, then turned her back on him and stalked to Narcissa’s wardrobe. She rifled carelessly through it, disregarding the care with which they had been hung, tugging things from their hangers and leaving them puddled on the floor of the massive oak closet. Silk would not do… she wished to bind the wizard, not cut off his circulation entirely. Linen, that would work. Hermione pulled a clearly-expensive dress from the wardrobe and dropped it to the floor contemptuously. Retrieving her wand from where she’d tucked it behind her ear, she snarled a clipped “ _ Secare! _ ” and neatly severed from its folds two lengthy strips of fabric. These she carried to where Lucius crouched on the floor, precisely where she had left him.

Pathetic, she thought warmly.  _ Beautiful _ .

Hermione nudged him with her toe, not hard, but firmly enough to get her point across, and bent to fist her hand again in his gorgeous hair. “Get up,” she commanded, and he obeyed, rising to his knees. “Hold out your hands, boy.” He did this as well, and Hermione knotted the linen strips around his wrists, then bound them tightly together in front of him.

“Stand up.”

And again, without a word; without a hesitation, he obeyed her.

“You  _ do _ like it,” she purred at him, walking a slow, lazy circle around his nude form. “You sickeningly pathetic little nothing of a man, you are utterly in love with being  _ mine _ .” Her fingertips brushed the backs of his knees, light as a lover’s kiss, and he flinched. Hermione bit her lip against the smile that would not leave her face. “Don’t you dare fall over, boy,” she told him. “I would hate to have to bind you with more than that cloth. I hate you, you worthless fuck, and if you give me a reason I might not be able to stop until I’ve beaten the skin from your body.” She touched him again, harder this time, a little smack stinging his shoulder like an insect. Again he flinched, his hands folding together within the tight constraints of the linen bindings. Hermione continued her slow circuit, like a spider winding her trapped prey ever tighter in inescapable, silken cords. She said nothing else, and the tension grew with the absence of sound, the lack of any movement but her slow pacing, and the heavy, unbearable presence of her intent, whatever it might be. She felt positively malevolent and it was an oddly warming- if disquieting- feeling.

When finally a sound broke the oppressive quiet, it was the sharp slap of skin to skin, and Lucius cried out, the sound high and startled. The shape of Hermione’s hand blossomed red on his arse.

“I hate you,” she told him calmly, still moving in her tight circle around him. “I have hated you for years, Lucius.”  _ Smack! _ The other cheek received a blow, backhanded this time, and another immediately followed it, her palm sharply biting firm flesh. She cupped her hand over the heat of the blow, gently soothing the sting, then smacked him hard again and took her hand away entirely. He’d bitten his lip now, tightly, and closed his eyes, and there was a flush on his face to match the growing red of his arse. “I hate you, and I hate your wife and I hate your son. I hate your peers and your politics and your utter, utter wickedness. I  _ hate _ you, Lucius. And you are mine.”

And all the while she spoke, Hermione alternated the sharp bite of pain with the cool, soothing glide of gentle fingertips, and any further protest he might have made was utterly buried beneath the inexorable avalanche of her will, and his bending before it.

She bent and tapped the back of his thighs. As though gravity suddenly doubled its pull, Lucius fell to his knees. Hermione pointed to where his massive bed dominated the room. “Crawl there, boy, and spread yourself on the floor for me.” He complied, she admiring his reddened arse as he moved. When he had arranged himself spreadeagle on the floor at the foot of the bed, she followed, and bound his wrists to the bedposts.

“You’ve been wretched, haven’t you?” She smirked down at him, and placing one bare foot across his throat, pressed gently but firmly on his windpipe. He stared up at her, grey eyes wide and, she was startled and exhilarated to note, fearful. Lucius did not immediately answer, and Hermione leaned a little, careful lest she actually injure him. There was no point actually killing the sod, tempting though it was.

“ _ Yes! _ ” he finally replied, voice hoarse and frantic, little more than a whisper. She snarled down at him.

“Yes,  _ what _ ?”

Lucius appeared perplexed, the fear flickering behind eyes that had never been anything but steel but were now clouded and tarnished. Hermione bared her teeth. The term was one she’d always snickered at before, faintly embarrassed at how horribly clichéd it sounded, but now- now, it seemed only natural, only fitting. “Yes,  _ Mistress _ ,” she hissed down at him, her voice positively venomous. Lucius drew a trembling breath, shallow beneath the pressure of her arched foot.

“…yes…  _ Mistress _ …”

Ooh, she could purr, she really could. Hermione lifted the pressure from his throat, sliding her foot to the floor on the other side and standing over him, looking disdainfully down at him with all the hauteur of a goddess. “Good boy,” she told him with a sardonic little smile. “Now… let’s see if that sharp tongue of yours is good for anything besides insulting your betters.”

The sash of her robe fluttered to the floor in a gold streamer that puddled beside them, and Hermione let the garment fall open. Its lapels framed her body, hiding the edge of the generous hourglass curve of breast-waist-hip in tantalising shadow but baring to view the soft skin of her belly. Lucius stared up at her, something very nearly worshipful staining his confusion.

Hermione sank to her knees, settling her weight on his chest, her thighs parted to either side of his face. She bent down, tangling her fingers loosely in the spill of his hair where it pooled on the floor, and Lucius inhaled sharply. “Taste me,” she said as she slid forwards, tantalisingly slowly. The skin of his chest was warm and smooth beneath the silky robe and her own skin, and Hermione let her eyes half-close, savouring it. She rose a little, balancing with her weight on her knees and one hand braced against the bed’s footboard. “Taste me.”

He did not hesitate. His breath was hot, but his tongue was hotter where he licked her eagerly. It glided flat over her lips then curled firmly, delicately against her clitoris in a flicker of movement that made Hermione gasp. He repeated this, a minute variance in pressure each time parting her folds a little more; pressing his tongue a bit deeper, until at last it made a tiny circle there, tracing her opening once; twice; a third time before extending sinuously inside. Hermione’s knuckles whitened on the footboard and in his hair. Clearly, he had had practice with this, and she found herself for a moment desperately envious of Narcissa.

Ah, but Narcissa was not here, and Hermione was. She closed her eyes, a wicked little smile refusing to be dislodged, and lost herself in the sensation of his skill. He tasted inside her; suckled for a too-brief moment on her clitoris then laved it with his tongue, broad and flat and wetly hot, then began again. His tongue was the most talented lover Hermione’d ever had, and when her orgasm swept over her, it came in waves, washing relentlessly through her for the time it took to draw breath and release it in a high, keening, raptured moan. It was light and heat and unendurable intensity, pulsing through nerve and blood and bone, and it left her breathless. Unsteadily, Hermione unclenched her hands and moved away from him, gathering herself, wrapping around herself the hauteur that was rapidly coming to feel natural.

“You did well,” she told him, sitting with her knees demurely together, feet off to the side. One hand languidly traced his leg from ankle to thigh, and Lucius shuddered. His erection had gone undiminished throughout the entirety of their encounter, and it seemed to strain for her attention now. “You did well, indeed.” She moved as she spoke, and the last word was exhaled across his swollen head, her breath curling warmly around it, giving the intimation, if not the actuality, of her mouth. Lucius’ hips rose, and immediately Hermione drew back, glaring haughtily down her nose at him.

“You will not move,” she snarled at him, “without my  _ express _ permission.” He fell still, subdued as much by her tone as by the words she spoke, and Hermione let long moments pass. Seconds ticked by, dominated by her silence and stillness. Only when Lucius let escape a tiny, wanting whimper, did she smile and again draw closer. She could see the strain in his body as he fought to keep still. His thighs tensed as her hair brushed them; the firm plane of his abdomen tightened when she again exhaled against his rigid erection. Hermione smiled as she drew her tongue lightly along its length from base to tip, and watched his arms and hands clench every muscle painfully tightly in an effort not to move. When her mouth engulfed him, Hermione thought he might actually explode from the strain, but Lucius, obediently, did not so much as twitch. She lowered her head, taking in as much of him as she could, and drew upward again slowly, curling her flattened tongue over the base, creating a gorgeous suction that snapped when she removed her mouth.

“Good boy,” Hermione murmured, and rewarded him with a flicker of her tongue over the tight skin of his glans. Lucius moaned, and she blew gently over the glistening wetness left behind by her tongue. “What would you do for me, boy, if I granted you the gift of an orgasm? Mm? You don’t deserve it, you vile thing.” Hermione suckled for a moment on the very tip of his cock, then once more took the whole thing into her mouth, leaving his skin shining-wet, and every muscle in his body as rigid and straining as his erection.

“What would you do for me, if I gave you this gift?” He made some high, staccato sound, more breath than voice, and Hermione gently bit the inside of his thigh. An idea struck her: a thoroughly wicked, thoroughly attractive idea. “Don’t say ‘anything’, Lucius; it’s cliché. I don’t want wealth. I don’t want you to buy me off; that, too, is far too predictable.

“No,” Hermione mused, placing her hands on his groin, palms down, thumbs and fingers together in a loose circle around his cock, framing it as though it were some delicate work of art. “No, that will simply not do.”

Lucius swallowed convulsively. Hermione watched the muscles of his throat move beneath his skin, and shifted her weight, moving to straddle his thighs. A gentle roll of her hips brushed her quim against the heavy, soft-skinned weight of his ballsack, and Lucius shuddered, his erection twitching desperately.

“If I allow you orgasm,” she purred softly, ominously, “you will allow me to mark you, Lucius Malfoy. You will be mine, for the rest of your miserable life, incontrovertibly and inescapably mine.”

Her eyes darted inevitably to the shadowy scar where the Dark Mark had been. This was not the same, Hermione told herself; nothing close to the same thing. She had no interest in world domination… only  _ Lucius _ ’ domination. Suborning the unarguably criminal and unscrupulous wizard to her will was nothing short of a public service; sod her conscience anyway. She tore her gaze away from his left arm and stared instead at his face, at the hooded grey eyes that had lost all semblance of steel and were fixed, glazed and glassy, on her body where she straddled him.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently, imperiously arching a brow. Lucius closed his eyes and swallowed again, and seemed to deflate.

And nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, mistress.”

He gasped when Hermione sank sharply, quickly down over his painfully-hard cock. There was no gentleness in her claiming of him: her body swallowed his completely to the base, clenching tightly around him as though to devour him utterly, take him into herself and consume him until nothing was left. She rose as she leaned forward to place her hands on his chest, and her fingers curled into claws when her hips descended again, just as quickly, just as sharply. Her fingernails left red runnels in his skin, and there was blood under her nails and on his chest, oozing up from the wounds she left, to streak his skin scarlet. Hermione rode him as though it were a punishment, as though every harsh impact of her hips to his was a blow in retaliation for his countless crimes. Her face was set in a snarl that could not be pleasure, and yet the spiralling tension in her body could be nothing but. 

A bead of sweat formed at the nape of her neck and trailed a chill fingertip down the indented curve of her spine. Lucius’ hands clenched into painful fists, the only movement allowed them where they lay bound to the foot of his bed, and his hips abruptly heaved off the floor, bearing her upward as his back arched and his body shuddered, overcome by the roiling waves of powerful orgasm. His voice was hoarse and high when he screamed, and it was this sound that triggered Hermione’s own climax. His scream was one of pure abandon, utterly uncontrolled. Hermione had shattered Lucius Malfoy’s legendary restraint, and the knowledge of this swept over her in wave after wave of almost-painful orgasm. Her body clenched around him in a tide of grasping greed, clutching him inside her as a possession, and Hermione collapsed to his chest, gasping for breath and struggling for composure in the face of overwhelming self-pleasure.

She’d won. She’d  _ won _ .

When Hermione had gathered enough energy and composure to stand, she left Lucius where he was. She accio’d a towel and cleaned herself, and performed a discreet charm to eliminate his seed from inside her body. The towel covered his groin when she carelessly tossed it aside, but she did not clean him. Ignoring his feeble protests, Hermione vanished into his luxurious bathroom to wash and dress. When she emerged, she stood over him for a long moment, gaze raking over his nude, supine body, a body that still trembled with exhaustion. She did not untie him. Let him command, ask, or beg the house elf to free him of his bonds or, better yet, wait till Narcissa returned home and found him. Hermione almost wished she could stay to hear the conversation that would ensue…

In the end, Hermione turned away without a word, striding to his bedroom door and letting it click shut behind her with a finality that she allowed to sink into her heart as well. She left without speaking another word to him… and without marking him. His capitulation was enough. As many concessions as she had made to necessity and pragmatism and her own desires, ultimately, Hermione was not that sort of witch.

Grey areas she could deal with… but she was not Dark. Lucius would have marked her, had their roles been reversed, and that awareness was the final confirmation she needed that it was a step too far.

Hermione returned to her flat a quiet, thoughtful woman. She closed off her floo connection and disconnected her telephone. If any owl appeared with a message for her, she did not notice, and spent the weekend in contemplation, closeted away. When Monday came, she returned to the Ministry and stayed only long enough to tender her resignation to her superiors. What she would do for income Hermione was not entirely certain, but she was utterly sure of this fact: that something had irrevocably changed in her, and she could no more tolerate working for petty middle managers at the Ministry than she could cut off her own head.

Somehow, however, she was absolutely certain that whatever else happened, Hermione Granger would come out on top, and utterly in control.


End file.
